


Target

by Luka



Series: We're a Team [15]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 00:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: The England squad are in Japan and the heat is on ...





	Target

**Author's Note:**

> The England squad have finally reached Japan in the latest instalment of this series! The story takes place in and around the opening pool matches against Tonga, USA and Argentina.
> 
> As usual, here's a reminder than this is fiction and that I've hijacked incidents for my own nefarious ends! And here's a warning for lots of swearing ...

The foreign media looked at them in press conferences like they were some sort of exotic creatures. The Japanese reporters were too polite to say anything, but the Aussies and Kiwis had no such qualms.

“So, Owen, what’s it like playing in the same side as your bloke?” asked one of the guys from Australian TV.

“Same as playing in the same side as anyone else.”

“Don’t your teammates find it odd?”

“You’d have to ask them.”

“No marital tiffs?”

“No.”

The press conference ground to a rapid halt.

***

Getting George to relax was almost impossible. He could often be enticed to a coffee shop, but when Henry and Jack led the charge down to the beach, George shook his head and found a quiet corner where he could pore over matches on his iPad. He joined in the mad cricket games and seemed to enjoy them, but Owen knew he took part because he thought he should, rather than because he wanted to.

Japan was a culture shock for all of them. Eddie hadn’t exaggerated about the heat and humidity. And the people were unfailingly polite and seemed delighted to see them. The meet and greet events were fairly painless if bemusing at times. But it was worth it to see the kids’ faces – they all seemed transfixed by bearded giant Joe Marler. 

Owen did his best, smiled in all the right places and posed for interminable photocalls. But he just wanted to be on the field with the ball in his hands.

***

Owen watched Billy praying on the pitch with the Tongan players at the end of the match, and sighed quietly. Why did the stupid fucker feel such a need to make a big deal about religion? Owen’s mam went to church, but she’d never use it to judge others, and was one of the most open-minded people he knew. All this ostentatious ‘look how devout I am’ shit made his head hurt.

“I suppose we should be glad they didn’t decide to target you and George because they don’t approve of your lifestyle,” said Jamie, appearing at Owen’s shoulder and handing him a water bottle.

Owen nodded. If there had been any comments made by the Tongans, it had been in the privacy of their changing room. And on the pitch there’d been nothing beyond their usual crunching tackles.

“One down, three to go,” said Jamie.

“Yeah.” The match hadn’t been pretty and England had been disjointed and at times frustrated by their opponents’ spoiling tactics. But a bonus point win was all they could ask for.

***

Owen’s birthday usually fell during the Premiership, so it felt odd to be out celebrating with his English teammates. They were at one of the kobe beef restaurants and it was turning into an enjoyable evening with the usual suspects on top form and the Japanese clientele staring at the exuberant and burly foreigners in their midst.

Joe Marler, who was overseeing the fines system for team misdeeds, had also organised that night’s seating – and had decreed that people couldn’t sit next to their best mates or husbands-to-be. So Jamie and Elliot were at opposite ends of the table, and George was halfway down having an intense conversation with Tom Curry. Owen was in between Ellis Genge, who wasn’t much of a talker, and Lewis Ludlum.

“I don’t want to sound like I’m being a creep or anything, but you and George are totally fucking awesome!” said Lewis.

“Um, thanks,” said Owen, not sure what to say in response. He was mainly used to his teammates ripping the piss out of him. Lewis was way off that stage, though, as befitted one of the squad’s bolters. He liked the lad’s wide-eyed enthusiasm for everything that was happening to him.

“You could have had a quiet life and not said anything. The fact you did speak out matters …”

“Thanks,” said Owen again. “We thought it was important we spoke out so all those gay kids know they’re not alone.” 

“Have you really been together since you were 16?”

Owen nodded. “And we knew each other before then when we were 13 or 14, as we were at school together for about a year. And we played rugby league against each other before that before our dads moved south.”

“Cool! It’s a brilliant story that you’re now playing together for England.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is …” Both Owen and George were pretty bored with retelling the childhood friends story, given it cropped up so often in media interviews. But Owen realised that the new lads like Lewis probably wouldn’t have heard it so many times.

“When are you going to get married?”

“Next August.”

“Awesome!”

Owen nodded. “We fixed a date and found a venue a few weeks back.”

“How do you cope with the fact you both prefer to play at 10?”

Owen hesitated, then shrugged, momentarily unsettled by Lewis’s sudden change of direction. It was the one thing he and George didn’t discuss much. For most of their international careers, they’d played 10 and 12. And then suddenly Eddie had dumped that combination and gone with Owen at 10 – and in all honesty it was his preferred position. He knew George had been frustrated with being on the bench for most of the Six Nations, which had then fuelled all the shit with him being selected ahead of Danny Cipriani.

“I think we’re used to it now. And Eddie’s always made it clear how important the 23 he selects for each match are.” He knew the answer sounded a bit too rehearsed.

Lewis nodded, smiling his thanks at a young waitress who was clearly fascinated by the rugby players. 

Owen ate a mouthful of the delicious beef. And he realised that he didn’t want to think how things might change post-Eddie with a coach seduced by Cips’ mercurial play.

***

Owen got back to his bedroom to find Jack, his roommate, grabbing his spongebag.

“Where you going?”

“I’ll doss down in Dickie’s room tonight. You and Fordy can have some time together.”

“It’s OK, you don’t …”

“Enjoy your birthday conjugals!” said Jack, and waggled his eyebrows as he disappeared down the corridor.

A few minutes later, there was a tap on the door. Owen opened it to find George looking faintly embarrassed.

“Let me guess, Jack and Dickie have sent you down …”

George nodded, his cheekbones slightly pink.

“Come here …” Owen held out his arms and George hugged him.

“Do you want to …?” George started to pull his teeshirt over his head.

“Not at the moment. You need a massage first.”

“I had one earlier …”

“Then you need another one.”

“But it’s your birthday …”

“In that case, I get to choose what I want to do, and that’s give you a massage. It’s OK to relax sometimes, Georgie …”

“I can’t believe it’s you saying that!”

“Yeah, well, do as I say, not as I do, as me dad always says!”

George stripped off his clothes and lay face-down on the bed. And Owen thought how fabulous his body looked. He’d been on a strict eating regime over the summer and had trained relentlessly. Owen had seen the changes in George’s body shape over the years, from skinny kid to honed athlete. And now he was in the best shape he’d ever been.

***

It felt like he’d been hit by a JCB. And as Owen hit the ground hard, the words “fucking queer!” rang in his ears.

He was straight back on his feet despite the pain shooting through his body. And his pledge to himself to stay out of trouble didn’t survive the first skirmish with the enemy as he and the pack piled in, exchanging abuse and punches with the American forwards.

“Owen, leave it!” George’s voice was unmistakable as his partner hauled him out of the fray.

The medic wanted him to come off, as his nose was still bleeding from a previous incident. But Owen shook his head. He’d be fine. And he sure as fuck wasn’t going to look like he could be felled by any fucking homophobe. And at fucking last - a referee had shown a red card for a high tackle.

***

Owen sat on the treatment table as the medics came back for a second go. England had won 45-7 and George was man of the match. He’d captained the side, scored the opening try and controlled the game to perfection. Owen knew he’d be agonising over that one missed kick, though.

The press conference had been dominated by Eddie in total WTF mode. Even George had laughed when the coach said: “Owen’s missing part of his nose which is unfortunate, but he’s nearly a married man, so he’s not looking for any lads in Kobe tonight so he’ll be OK.”

***

They were in the hotel bar and decompressing after a meal. Owen, the gouge in his nose stitched, messaged his mam to assure her that he was OK.

“Totally bloody ironic he went for you,” said Sam.

“How d’you mean?” Owen looked up.

“He could have flattened Fordy much easier than a big arsy fucker like you!”

George sat up straight and Owen could see the comment had riled him. “What are you saying, mate? Because I’m not big and butch, I must be an obvious target who can’t take care of himself on the pitch?”

Sam’s slight hesitation was fatal.

“Thanks very fucking much!”

“Fordy, honestly, that’s not what I meant …”

George’s raised voice had alerted Jonny, who was there like a shot.

“Everything OK, George?”

George nodded, but Ben had now joined them and Owen could see he was casting worried glances at his two Leicester teammates. Ben seemed to have appointed himself as protector to both George and Jonny. And Owen knew George was about half a centimetre from really losing his rag. He was renowned for his calmness, but on the rare occasions when he did go sky-high, it always surprised the hell out of people.

“Come on George, leave this lot to keep bitching, and Jonny can buy us the pint he’s owed us since dinosaurs walked the earth,” said Ben.

George hesitated, then nodded again and followed his teammates over to the bar where Marler and Coley were reprising their double act to a cat-calling audience of players and a handful of fascinated locals.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to offend him …” Sam looked bemused.

Owen shrugged. ‘You could have phrased it a lot better, mate.” The lad was certainly an odd one and not everyone’s cup of tea. Elliot and Jinx poked fun at him for constantly hanging around and wanting to be part of the gang, and Danny Care hadn’t been entirely complimentary about him in a newspaper rundown on each member of the team. Sam revelled in his kamikaze kid tag and Owen suspected that he was insecure beneath his confident manner and desperate to be accepted.

“But he is an easier target than you … I mean, look at the size difference between you, for a start.”

“Sam, can you just shut the fuck up now?” JJ was looking decidedly irritated. “It might be true, but it’s not tactful in the circumstances.”

“How d’you mean?”

Ant mimed banging his forehead against the table as JJ said: “For fuck’s sake, mate, think about it. It was a blatant homophobic incident, and Fordy doesn’t need it constantly reinforced that he’s a target for Neanderthals. And he’s never dodged a tackle in his life.”

“But it’s an issue that he’s likely to be targeted because he’s gay and because he’s not built like Faz is …”

“So you think only gay players built like brick shithouses should be playing rugby …” Owen’s voice was dangerously quiet, a warning sign to those who knew him well.”

“Of course not!”

“That’s what it fucking well sounds like …”

“But …”

“Sam, mate, you’re not doing yourself any favours. Let the subject drop.” As usual Mark Wilson was the voice of reason. He was probably the best-liked bloke in the squad. 

“But …”

“Sam. Shut up. Now.” Mark didn’t even have to raise his voice.

Sam looked hurt and muttered something as he picked up his drink and went to join his kamikaze soulmate Tom, who was as weird as he was.

***

“Shit, have you seen this?”

Owen reached out for George’s iPad and scanned the story on the BBC site. “Fuck. Poor bastard …”

It was one of the main stories. Former Wales and Lions skipper Gareth Thomas had revealed that he was HIV+. It looked like his hand had been forced by one of the tabloids threatening to break the news. Neither of them knew Alfie well, but he’d contacted them with his support when they came out and had said he was always there if they needed to talk. 

“Fucking tabloid scum.”

“Yeah. I’ll message him.”

_Stay strong, mate. You’re fucking awesome. All the best from me and Fordy._

Owen wasn’t expecting an immediate reply, but one came back almost at once.

_Really appreciate it. You boys are doing brilliantly. Speak soon. Alfie._

***

As Owen walked into the team room he could see George smiling as his fingers skimmed across his phone’s keyboard. Yeah, so he might be commenting on a photo of his nephew on Instagram. But somehow Owen knew it was bloody Cips messaging him.

Owen had never trusted Cipriani as far as he could kick him. He’d seen him in action once too often in his early England days before George joined the senior squad. Cipriani’s default setting then had seemed to be sullen and secretive. And the stories about him smuggling women into the team hotel were true. Owen was willing to believe that the Gloucester move had changed things for him. But it didn’t mean Owen had to trust him or like him. And most of all he didn’t want to see George hurt by someone pretending to be a friend and then betraying him later.

Owen wasn’t entirely sure that George was right about Cips not being interested in him sexually. It never seemed to occur to George that his cute, boy next door looks attracted people - you only had to read the admiring comments and see the love hearts from both men and women on his Instagram account. Siobhan, his mam and dad’s neighbour, was right - George was a lovely-looking lad. And for maybe the first time in his life Owen, who wasn’t an insecure person, wondered what George saw in him. Shit, maybe they’d been wrong to commit to each other so young. That had never struck him before. After all, his parents had been childhood sweethearts and were still as much in love now in their 40s as they’d been in their teens.

George looked up and smiled at him. “I can hear your braincells whirring!”

“Should we have given each other space, you know, to see other people when we were younger?” It was out before Owen could stop himself.

The pain on George’s face was like a punch to his stomach.

“Are you saying that you want to see someone else?” George’s voice was flat and emotionless.

“No! No way. I was just worried, you know, that …” His voice trailed off.

“What’s brought all of this on?” The familiar tones were gentle now. “Oh, wait, let me guess … You think I should go and shag Cips and get it out of my system, or something? How many times do I have to tell you that he’s nothing more than a friend. And why would I want him when I’ve got you? I’ll keep saying it till you believe me.”

“I do believe you …”

George glanced around the room quickly. The only person there was Joe Cokanasiga, who had his back to them and was chatting animatedly on his phone. George leaned over and tipped Owen’s chin up, kissing him on the lips.

“Good. See that you do,” he said severely.

***

They were at 10 and 12 again. Owen knew he should be willing to play anywhere for the team. But a tiny part of him yearned for that no. 10 shirt. And he knew George knew that. There was no way, though, that either of them were opening that can of worms at the moment. George was there totally by merit. And Owen knew that he wasn’t yet firing on all cylinders. He pushed his doubt to the furthest recesses of his mind and concentrated on the unrivalled moment of pride when he and George led the team out onto the field.

***

For the second time in just over a week, Owen sat on the treatment table with a huddle of doctors muttering amongst themselves. No one seemed to believe him when he said he was fine, and that he just had a sore jaw.

That vicious fucker Tomas Lavanini had been a violent incident waiting to happen. And Owen could hear raised voices in the corridor outside. He assumed the agitated voice gabbling in patchy English was the Argentinian lock who seemed to be trying to persuade Dan Cole that it hadn’t been a malicious tackle. Owen knew that Lavanini was joining Leicester after the World Cup – he’d be having some interesting conversations with his new teammates after this sending-off. 

Jamie wandered in, ignoring the pointed stares from the medics. “OK, skip?”

“Yeah. I’ll survive.”

“Good. Have a look at this.”

Owen held out his hand for Jinx’s iPad. On the screen was George’s post-match interview with ITV.

“Do you think Owen’s being targeted because of his sexuality?” asked the interviewer.

George, usually so considered and circumspect in media interviews, barely hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I do.”


End file.
